


Moonlight Serenade

by pixie_rings



Series: Shallura Sundays [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Period-Typical Racism, Prompt: dancing, Shallurasundays, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 00:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8822158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixie_rings/pseuds/pixie_rings
Summary: They meet by chance, and Takashi knows it's meant to last.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely want to revisit this at a later date when I have more time. I want to expand upon a lot, I had to rush it.

England is very, very different from California.

For one thing, it's cold. For another, the accents are damn weird. It rains a lot, enough that he's learnt he could get caught it a downpour at any minute. And it's _old_. He can feel it when he walks along the streets, the alleyways, peers up at the buildings: these streets felt feet before America was even a country. It reignites the spark of fascination with the past he's always had, and had before this war started.

It's also what Takashi thinks when he's sitting in the pub, nursing a scotch and trying to subtly distance himself from the rowdiness of his comrades, and studies the ancient wooden beams and low ceilings.

He's distracted from his thoughts, however, when _she_ walks in.

She's with two other young women, laughing together. Her skin is as dark as the wooden beams, rich and soft-looking. Her pale white hair is tucked beneath a smart blue cap, and uniform is immaculate, crisply pressed and shiny-buttoned. He can see her calves under her skirt, bare, like most women's in this country with a severe lack of nylons, and she leans against the bar.

“Hey, man, why you lettin' _that_ in here?”

Takashi cringes into his drink. One of his fellow soldiers, of course, a fella named Samuels, is giving the woman a filthy look. The woman barely spares him a disdainful glance, as if he's so beneath her she can't be bothered. Takashi admires that immensely.

“Three whiskeys, please, Jeff,” she says, and Jeff the landlord obliges.

“I said why'd you let that nigger in?!”

“Clear off, Yank!” says one of the other women waspishly. The beautiful woman takes her drink and glides right past Samuels, to a free table. She sits like a queen occupying a throne, straight-backed and proud, and he sees, from the sparkle at her wrist, that she's an officer. It makes sense, in all honesty.

Samuels, unfortunately, decides to prove himself a piece of shit to the locals, and barges up to the women's table.

“Hey! The fuck are you doin'?!”

He leans over, gets right in her face, and her expression becomes one of immense distaste. Takashi prepares to get up, one hand on the back of his chair, drink abandoned. Jeff beats him to it.

“Out, now!”

Samuels straightens, grinning nastily. “Good, chuckin' out the -”

“Not her, you! Get out of my pub!”

Samuels gawks. So do the others, some of whom are crowded around him, ready to back him up.

“You're lettin' this nigger drink in here?”

“She's a regular,” Jeff says coldly. A couple of other locals are eyeing the Americans, clearly ready to jump to Jeff's defence should the need arise, and Takashi understands why they have such a terrible reputation here already.

Samuels seems ready to fight, until Lewis steps in. “Let's get out of here, it ain't even worth it.”

Takashi easily avoids their eyes when they saunter – or attempt to, it's more of a drunken stagger – out into the night, and he lets out a sigh of relief. He turns to the women. Her two companions looks profoundly disgusted, but she looks like she's not going to let idiots ruin her evening, sipping her drink delicately.

Her eyes flicker up and meet his. He can feel his face burning fiercely, and he swallows. She raises a pure white eyebrow and the corners of her full lips twitch.

He turns back to his own drink, frozen stiff and embarrassed to his core. She caught him staring. Oh, _Lord_.

His terror rises three-fold when the chair in front of him scrapes back and he looks up to see her standing there. Her eyes, he notices now she's that much closer, are a radiant, wonderful blue, like the cloudless summer sky. This woman is breathtaking.

“May I join you?” she asks. He swallows again, and he forgets what words are: her voice is so lovely, like birds singing. He nods silently and she sits with a chuckle. “I noticed you didn't follow your countrymen.”

That brings Takashi out of his awestruck silence and he cringes. “I'm so sorry about that.”

“Don't be, I imagine you have similar problems?” She gives him a look, and he answers with an identical one, one he's seen on the faces of so many other people like them.

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“I'm Allura Fala,” she says, holding out her hand. He shakes it. Such a fitting name, she is definitely alluring.

“Takashi Shirogane, but, uh, everyone calls me Shiro.”

They hadn't used to, not before he'd volunteered. His drill sergeant had thought “Shirogane” was too hard to say, and Shiro had stuck with the whites. Only the other _Nisei_ use Shirogane.

“I think I'll use Takashi, if that's all right,” she says with a smile, and he smiles back.

The night goes on, almost too quickly. Her companions leave not long after with identical knowing looks, stifling giggles, but he barely pays them any notice. Why would he, when he has the most beautiful woman in the world sitting by his side? Her conversation is sparkling, her wit razor-sharp, and her laughter like celestial music.

Takashi offers to walk her back to her hotel. She accepts.

The town is quiet at night, and terribly dark, the only noise their low voices and the click of her low heels on the cobblestones. A warden shines a solitary beam at them, but dims it again once he sees their uniforms. A cat darts across the street in front of them, and Takashi is sure he's going to have a sore throat tomorrow because he hasn't talked this much in ages.

She's staying in a little hotel that overlooks the beach. He can hear the waves lapping on the sand, and her hair catches the moonlight.

“I'd like to see you again,” she says. “There's a dance at the town hall Wednesday evening...”

He's always liked women who are forward. “I'll be there,” he assures her. He wonders if he could dare to kiss her, just a peck on the cheek, but she beats him to it. She's not that much shorter than him, but she still has to tiptoe to reach him, and her lips touch his, brief, fleeting, leaving him wanting more.

“I'll see you Wednesday, then,” she says.

Takashi has to fight the urge to whistle on his way back to barracks, hands in his pockets, feeling decidedly pleased with himself.

* * *

The days tick closer to Wednesday, and they also tick closer to moving out. Soon they'll be shipped to mainland Europe, though he doesn't know where yet – they never tell before they have to – and he'll be fighting to free a place he's never seen before. That's fine by him: he'd wanted to help people. That was why he was here.

He slicks his hair back, putting his cap at a slight jaunty tilt. His uniform is pressed, he fixes his tie, and he's ready.

“Where're you off to, Shirogane?” Morita asks from his lazy sprawl on his bed, reading a pulp novel. Takashi shrugs, but he can't resist a grin, and Morita grins back. “Look who's got himself a date! I won't wait up for you.” He waggles his eyebrows.

Takashi kicks the bedpost as he leaves, making Morita laugh, and heads into town.

He waits outside Allura's hotel. He suspects fighting might be a great deal less frightening than picking a girl up to take her to a dance. He finally summons up the courage and walks in, finding Allura sitting on the couch in the small lobby.

She stands up when she sees him. Her smile is much more coy than when they first met, and damn, she's beautiful. Her dress is pale blue, a bit more summery than would be wise for such a chilly September, but it clings to her slim figure and shows off her curves that he tries his damndest not to stare at.

“Evening,” he says, tipping his hat politely. She flushes slightly, hiding a giggle with a white-gloved hand.

“Good evening to you,” she replies. He helps her into her coat, offers his arm, and she takes it.

“You look... beautiful,” he says, with as much pure sincerity as possible.

“And _you_ look handsome,” she says, beaming at him as if she's the luckiest girl in the world, and that can't be right, he thinks, because he's the luckiest guy, no one can be luckier than him right now.

The dance is nothing special. The band is made of amateurs, British soldiers by the looks of it, but they're good, and they play the latest songs from back home, which is a pleasant surprise, Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller and all the things he knows how to dance to.

Takashi takes Allura's hand, and they start to dance.

They dance all night, barely stopping to drink, their bodies fast and loose and her laughter contagious. She sounds like she's having the time of her life right now, and Takashi feels like he is as well. He spins her, twirls her, places a hand on her waist and leads her across the dancefloor, everyone else in the little town hall ignored in favour of the beauty in his arms.

It's late, very late. Dancers have trickled away, until it's only them, but the band keeps playing, the trumpeter nudging the pianist with a smirk. Takashi nods his thanks when they start up something slow and recognisable, an encore from earlier in the evening. _Moonlight Serenade_ plays softly around them, mellow and soulful, and all he can do is gaze in her eyes, get lost in them, and smile like a lovesick fool. Their feet know the steps, her waist slight beneath his palm, her hand warm on his shoulder.

He wants to kiss her so badly, his heart thudding, his head spinning, not just from the drinks.

* * *

The stars are bright again, but the wind bites tonight. They take refuge in a shelter overlooking the sea, the moon spilling luminous on the loud waves, and they laugh breathlessly, his arm around her shoulders.

Their eyes meet again, and their laughter fades out in favour of a quiet tension, not unpleasant, hot with anticipation. She leans in first, and he obeys, unable to resist.

It's a real kiss this time, deep and filled with longing. He cups her soft cheek, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him in closer to her. She tastes like whiskey and perfection, and he wishes this kiss, and tonight, could last forever.

But they have to pull apart, mouths still close, sharing panted breaths, noses bumping.

“Come back to my room?” she asks, sultry, and it sends a thrill up his spine, a shuddering bolt of need.

“Yes,” he answers breathlessly, and she smiles.

* * *

The bed is small, not really meant for two, but it doesn't matter, because it means they have to be close. She closes the curtains, unbuttons her dress and lets it slip down, pooling to the floor, revealing white undergarments and hot, dark skin. He strips off his shirt, his pants, and they're on each other again, kissing hungrily, hands wandering, falling onto the creaking springs of the mattress.

He peels off her brassiere, kisses between her breasts, follows the curve of her body lower, slides off her silky French panties. She parts her legs, gasping when his mouth goes to her. She tastes divine, and he brings her, trembling, to her first climax, her fist in his hair and his name on her tongue.

She pulls him up to her, kissing him roughly, gratefully, reaching her hand between them to stroke him, slide the contraceptive on him, draw him towards her.

“I want you,” she purrs.

“Then have me,” he replies, and she tosses her head back and moans when he sinks into her, savouring the delicious heat of her, how she clenches around him, her legs tight around his waist, drawing him deeper.

It's just another dance, he thinks, as their movements match seamlessly. They know the steps to this as well, follow each other easily, their bodies close, wrapped in each other, perfect partners.

“Takashi...” she moans, long, drawn-out, nails digging into his shoulder-blades as she comes again, rippling around him, bringing him to his own peak with a groan of her name.

They stay close afterwards, her nose against his chin, his lips on her forehead.

“When are you leaving?” she asks, her voice quiet. He closes his eyes. The question hurts.

“Soon,” he replies bitterly. “In the next week, I think.”

She sighs, tries to burrow deeper into his embrace, but stays silent.

“Listen, I... I don't want this to be a one-time thing,” he says. She sits up, looks at him, bites her lip.

“Write to me,” she says. “Every time you can. I'll get them when I dock.”

“I will. I will.”

She bends down, kisses him again, and again. He should go back to barracks, he knows this, but he can't bring himself to leave her, leave this little bubble of safety where nothing and no one can touch them. 

Takashi knows, deep down, that even though this is sudden, and not quite love just yet, it's not going to end. He won't let it end.

* * *

He got a Purple Heart and an honourable discharge in exchange for his services, his arm and his mind. They want to send him back home, as soon as possible, they want him out of the way, but he has something he has to do.

Her ship is the _HMS Constancy_. It takes him almost a day to get to Plymouth from Dover, but it's worth it. He finds the _Constancy_ , takes a deep breath. He probably shouldn't be here. They might have been writing, they might have met whenever they could when leave, such a precious thing could be arranged in such a way to allow them to, but what sort of self-respecting woman would want a broken man like him? He has nothing left to offer her.

His stump aches. He clenches his one remaining fist that he has had to relearn writing with – still barely legible – and he turns, starts to leave. If he disappears now, it will be like she never met him. She'll forget him, and marry someone better for her. Better than him.

“Takashi!”

His step falters. He can't help it as his heart begins to pound. What started a year ago with two all-too-brief nights has blossomed into something stronger, deeper. How many nights had the distant crumps of shells kept him awake, his only solace her whirling handwriting and words of comfort? He still has all of them, every single one, kept folded in his pack and neatly tied with string in a little tin to keep them safe from the weather. He has her photograph in his breast pocket, so proud and pretty in her uniform.

He curses the selfishness that makes him turn back to her voice.

Allura's running along the dock, heedless of the stares, and she throws herself at him, clings to him, buries her face in his chest.

“Don't _ever_ turn away from me again!” she says fiercely. He wraps his only arm around her, closing his eyes, unable to fight the tidal wave of relief and joy washing over him. It's something he hasn't felt in forever.

“I won't,” he says. “I won't.”

* * *

Dancing is harder with only one arm, but they make it work.


End file.
